


Lonely Souls

by Nimohtar



Series: A Strange Infatuation [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, PWP-ish, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimohtar/pseuds/Nimohtar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OS. After the war, Harry meets Lucius Malfoy once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely Souls

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Up to OotP, excludes HBP and DH.
> 
> Beta: Batsutousai

* * *

There's no secret to living.  
Just keep on walking.  
There's no secret to dying.  
Just keep on flying.

 God knows you're lonely souls.  
God knows you're lonely souls.

 

* * *

 

Harry hadn’t been to Malfoy Manor before. He stood before the gates now, though, gazing up at the black wrought iron, the Malfoy crest engraved in the centre, an elaborate M entwined with three peacock feathers. Somehow the pretentiousness of it didn’t surprise him, considering what he knew of the family itself. A simple touch to the crest had the gates opening, and he stepped through without further ado.

 He was expected, after all.

 He walked up the drive, his Auror boots crunching along the gravel path, his robes swinging gently with each step, the leather bag hanging from one shoulder brushing against his leg every so often, reminding him of his business here. His eyes travelled over the outside of the house, taking in the six or so floors of the building, with their dozens of gleaming windows, the light grey stone of the walls, the dark slate of the tiles, contrasted with the rolling gardens that spread in all directions; tendrils of ivy grew up the sides of the walls, maintained into perfect arcs, covering the stone balconies that jutted out of the house in regular intervals. It wasn’t often he saw a home such as this, more used to the small flats of his friends, or the rambling imperfectness of The Burrow.

 Even Number 12 Grimmauld Place, which he’d considered overly extravagant upon his first arrival there, could not even hope to compete with this, although now it was his home. After the end of the war, the Order had moved out of Grimmauld Place, no longer needing it as a headquarters; Harry, however, had stayed. He’d found it soothing to be there, in those first few weeks, cleaning the house a room at a time giving him both the rest and the solitude he’d needed.

 The war had passed quickly - quicker than anyone had anticipated. For Harry, it had begun in earnest the year after he had left Hogwarts, no longer sheltered from the worst of it as he had been during his school years. Although not one of the wizards and witches regularly sent into battle, he’d seen the preparations and the aftermath, the tense faces of the Order, and the members returning wounded. He’d trained with both Order and Auror fighters, taught offensive and defensive magic, spells and incantations which would help him when the time came to defeat Voldemort once and for all.

 That time had come shortly before his nineteenth birthday, a skirmish gone wrong, a frantic battle along the streets of London, witches and wizards throwing spells amongst crowds of startled and panicked Muggles, Voldemort’s forces cornered by chance. Harry had been summoned from the Headquarters, and with everyone watching, both Muggle and wizard alike, had finally fulfilled the prophecy and had brought an end to Voldemort’s second reign of terror. It was fluke, he knew, that he’d won. Just more of that luck which had served him so well over the years.

 The Wizarding world, and in particular the reformed Ministry, had been a blur of activity after that, working with the Muggle Prime Minister to minimise the damage done by the battle, obliviating people en masse, fixing damaged buildings and roadways. Harry, gratefully, had avoided it all, had hidden himself away for a few weeks, simply enjoying the idea that it was over. Being Harry Potter, however, meant he wasn’t able to escape it forever, and after only a few weeks of respite, he’d been swept into the new fervour gripping the magical community. He’d been interviewed, photographed, awarded with medals. He’d been roped into the Auror corps as soon as they’d been able to organise it, as had Ron. While Ron had joined the corps proper, starting with the basic training, Harry had been promoted within days to a senior position - a position, he knew most definitely, he hadn’t earned. His arguments had proved useless, and in time he’d become resigned to it, and done his best to do the job he’d been given, and not to let down those who worked both above and below him. As Hermione - new Director of the Department for Magical Relations - had said, it wasn’t as though he wasn’t doing good, even if his job mainly involved paperwork - reviewing case files and signing documents.

 He would do his best with this job, too, he thought to himself as he started up the steps to the Malfoy home’s front door. He was here on behalf of the Ministry, his Department, on official business, and his conduct would reflect such. So no more time spent gawking at buildings, even if they were impressive.

 The door opened before he even had a chance to ring the doorbell, and a House-Elf stood to one side to let him in, its round green eyes staring at him incuriously, its pillowcase white and clean. The contrast to Dobby of years ago startled Harry a moment, but ruefully he realised that even the Malfoys would not be able to escape the force of Hermione’s ongoing S.P.E.W. agenda, which surprisingly had seen success since its first implementation.

 ‘Harry Potter, to see Lucius Malfoy,’ he announced as the House-Elf closed the front door, his eyes briefly wandering over the entrance hall. The grey theme from outside was continued in the light coloured marble floors, but there was colour too, more than Harry had been expecting, the tall pillars that reached the white and gold painted ceiling a dark marbled blue, large potted plants in jewel coloured vases scattered evenly around the room as decoration, interspersed with tasteful artwork. There was a single closed door on each side leading out of the room, and two staircases curving upwards bracketing the wide open doorway straight ahead, through which Harry could see what seemed to be a huge ballroom; he could see glimpses of crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

 ‘Mr Potter is expected,’ the House-Elf answered him, drawing Harry’s attention away from the room and back to him. ‘Follow Razzle, please,’ he ordered, before starting up one of the staircases.

 Harry quickly strode after him, absently unwinding the scarf that he’d been wearing to keep away the chill of autumn, and stuffed it into his pocket. He’d never quite got the hang of warming charms.

 Following Razzle through the house, it suddenly occurred to him that he was moments away from meeting Lucius Malfoy once more, and although he thought he’d prepared for it, the slight quickening of his pulse clearly indicated otherwise. He hadn’t had much contact with any of the family after the war. They had all been pardoned for their roles during the war, unsurprisingly, money still granting immunity to those able to afford it, even when their guilt and involvement was without question. They’d lost status, some power, and a large amount of money and property in buying their freedom, but had otherwise come out relatively unscathed - more unscathed than many considered fair, as they’d not even suffered a sentence in Azkaban. Harry had attended the trials briefly, out of general curiosity; he’d made it clear early on that he wanted no part in testifying against suspected or captured Death Eaters. He’d been there on the day the Malfoys had received their pardon, watching them leave the courtroom looking slightly frazzled, somewhat worn, but proud nonetheless.

 After that, he’d been sucked into his job with the Aurors, and had had little time to devote to keeping track of such things over the years, although he’d had gossip passed onto him every now and again - enough that he knew of Draco’s burgeoning career as Quidditch player, and Narcissa’s apparently permanent removal to France a few years earlier. Of Lucius, he hadn’t heard anything, until this particular case had reached his desk, the reason behind his being here.

 Razzle stopped abruptly, and Harry was lucky his wandering thoughts had caused him to fall behind, otherwise he would certainly have bumped into the House-Elf. It glanced up at him, before knocking sharply on the door with little raps, and turning the handle.

‘Mr Potter, Sir,’ it declared, and ushered Harry inside with a movement from its hand.

Harry nodded his head in thanks, and stepped through the door, his eyes flicking briefly over the deep brown wood and green of the décor, but inevitably drawn to the man sitting in the large wingback armchair by the balcony doors, a book in his hands. He looked unchanged from when Harry had seen him last, his hair still that long blonde, currently falling loose down his back and over his shoulders, his attire still as elegant as ever. His face was the same, at the moment turned towards the window and staring in the distance, but turning sharply towards Harry as soon as he crossed the threshold, those clear grey eyes now directed at him, and stilling him in his tracks.

 Malfoy’s eyes passed over him in one long lingering look, head to toe and back again, one hand placing the book he had been reading carefully to one side.

 ‘Mr Potter,’ he greeted, his tone pleasant enough, but there was something to it – some kind of knowing – which made Harry frown slightly.

 ‘Mr Malfoy,’ he replied steadily, determined that he would hold his own no matter how uncomfortable the other man made him.

 ‘Please, have a seat.’ Malfoy gestured to the matching armchair opposite him, and Harry made his way over and sat down, slipping off his leather bag and dropping it to the floor beside his seat.

 ‘Now, what may I get for you?’ Malfoy asked politely.

 ‘This is hardly a social call,’ Harry pointed out, wondering why Malfoy was insisting upon this façade of polite friendliness, when both of them knew they weren’t friends, and their business together would be concluded much more quickly without the unnecessary social pleasantries. He could only surmise that Malfoy was being this contrary on purpose, perhaps to daunt him. He hated to admit that it was ever so slightly successful. His past experiences with Malfoy hadn’t inspired feelings of trust in him, after all.

 ‘There’s no reason why business can’t be… pleasurable…now, is there?’

 Harry froze a second, eyes looking up at Malfoy for a sign of… something, but the elder man’s expression showed only mild expectation and innocence. It didn’t set him at ease in any way, but he realised that if Malfoy was set on this charade of guest and host, then there wasn’t much he could do to stop him, so really it didn’t matter. It might even prove useful to him, Malfoy possibly being more inclined to co-operate if Harry participated in this… game.

 ‘I’ll have tea then,’ Harry stated briefly.

 ‘Of course,’ Malfoy replied, and with a flick of his wand summoned a House-Elf. ‘Bring the tea things,’ he ordered.

 The House-Elf appeared a moment later with an antique trolley laden down with plates and a pretty tea set. As Harry’s gaze passed over the array of foods and drinks before him, memories of another lunchtime feast swirled in his mind - the last time he and Lucius Malfoy had been in such close proximity to one another, had shared a meal, had shared much more than that.  

 His jaw clenched and he pushed the thoughts away with determination, but still there was a slight tremor in his hand as he accepted the delicate china cup on its saucer from the House-Elf. He brought it to his mouth for a sip, and was only mildly surprised to find it exactly to his tastes - no milk, plenty of sugar - before he set the cup down onto its saucer once more and rested it on the small table beside him. Then he turned his eyes to Malfoy once more, finding the other man staring at him with a peculiarly intense expression, which morphed into a far blander smile as he quietly dismissed the Elf.

 For some reason the man had always looked at him with such an expression, Harry remembered, whether it was on a battlefield, or here, politely sipping tea in a drawing room.

 ‘You didn’t check to see if the tea was drugged.’

Harry’s eyes darted to the innocent-looking tea cup sitting beside him, momentary alarm flicking through him, before reason caught up, and he quashed down the brief surge of panic. He looked back at Malfoy, and was perversely reassured by the underlying amusement in the elder wizard’s eyes.

 ‘You wouldn’t poison me,’ he stated firmly. ‘Too many people know I’m here. It wouldn’t do you any good.’

 Malfoy calmly stirred his tea with a silver spoon. ‘Whoever said it had to be poison?’ he murmured and smirked at Harry’s sudden hesitation, then lifted his cup to his mouth. ‘Shall we begin?’

 Harry, off-balance once more, as he so often was around this man, reached down for the bag sitting at his feet and pulled out a red folder, and a small glass cube filled with swirling blue lights, which he placed on the table in front of him.

 ‘Is that really necessary?’ Malfoy’s tone showed faint distaste.

 ‘ _Yes,_ ’ Harry said emphatically, and drew his wand to tap the cube twice, activating it. Galen’s Cubes had replaced Quick Quotes Quills over the last few years as the main recording device for Auror interviews; recordings were more faithful and spelled against tampering. After the war it had been a necessary change, to prevent false evidence and altered records.

 ‘Auror Harry Potter conducting interview with Lucius Malfoy, date February the 18th, 2006, regarding case number DX1809. Mr Malfoy, do you understand that this interview is being recorded, and your rights as regards to the use of the Galen’s Cube?’

 ‘Yes, I do,’ Malfoy replied.

 ‘Good. Let’s get started then. This is a follow-up interview about the incident which took place two weeks ago, on February the 4th, 2006....’

 Harry relaxed into formal interview procedure, the routine of the questions settling him for the first time since he had entered the house. Harry’s job rarely entailed conducting the kind of interviews which other Aurors had to do on a regular basis - suspect interviews, witness statements, incident follow-ups - but he spent most of his time listening to the Cube records afterwards, or reading over the written copies of the interviews, and had picked up enough about interview technique to be able to conduct one passably should the need arise, such as now. It helped that this particular interview was one of the easiest to conduct - a simple reaffirming of facts collected and statements given two weeks ago, after the initial interview with Malfoy. It was fairly formulaic and mostly boring, but Harry didn’t mind it at all, especially as Malfoy was being extremely co-operative. Harry didn’t dare ask why, lest it interrupt the flow of the interview, or cause the other man to suddenly stop.

 As for the case itself, it shouldn’t have involved so much work as it had. Harry had read up about it before coming. There had been a fight in a shop in Diagon Alley, a disagreement in opinion between a group of young wizards blown out of proportion, resulting in spells being fired, and passers-by being caught in the crossfire. It hadn’t lasted long, Aurors arriving on the scene promptly to break up the scuffle, along with Medi-Wizards to deal with those injured. The event wasn’t important enough to make the headlines in ordinary cases, but it just so happened that during the argument, one of the injured young men in the shop had been the son of a visiting noble family from China, whose father was here for diplomatic purposes, to discuss the Magical Agreements between the Ministry and the Imperial Chinese Household. He had just enough influence and importance that when he had begun to put pressure on the Aurors to see to it that those responsible were duly punished, it had been decided that the case would be handled with particular care, so as not to cause problems for their international relations. It was why all the interviews and evidence were being handled with extreme caution; it wasn’t only Britain who had an interest in the current case, and they had to make sure Auror conduct was exemplary.

 Malfoy’s role in the proceedings was relatively straightforward: he’d been present in the shop, and when the fighting had broken out, had been caught up in it like the rest around him. He’d been quick enough to protect himself with a shield charm, but other than that, had cast no other spell to either help or to hinder, something for which many of the Head Aurors were secretly grateful for: there had been enough uproar during the trials over the Malfoys, and they had no need for Malfoy’s past and association with the Death Eaters to be raised once again when they were already dealing with Chi Yen family.

 Harry was grateful for the simplicity of it as well as he rounded up the interview with a few final questions. Although those touched by the war would forever remember it, he, like so many others, thought that it was time to let go of the ugliness, to leave it behind, and move on from it and heal. Others had fought for far longer than he had, but the years since he had entered the wizarding world for the first time had taken their toll on him.

 ‘Interview concluded,’ he said at last, leaning over to tap his wand on the Cube once more, ending the recording and sealing the Cube with his personal magical signature, rendering it accessible only to himself and his superiors. ‘That’s everything we need, thank you. There shouldn’t be any need for us to speak to you any more, but if something comes up, we’ll contact you again and arrange a further meeting, if you have no objection.’

 ‘No,’ Malfoy said simply, his posture as elegant and relaxed as it had been throughout the interview, his gaze on Harry slightly speculative.

 ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Malfoy.’ Harry rose to his feet and began packing away the things he had brought with him. His mouth was dry from all the talking, but his tea had long since gone cold, and he would rather wait until he got back to the office to get himself something than linger here some more. He was relieved at how smoothly things had gone after his initial discomfort, and convinced that he had handled both himself and the interview well. He could now go home satisfied that he had put the past to rest.

 He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.

 ‘Tell me, Mr Potter, are you satisfied with your life?’

 The question was so unexpected that Harry couldn’t think of anything to say for a few flabbergasted moments. ‘What kind of question is that?’ He settled upon at last, frowning.

 Malfoy wasn’t looking at him anymore; instead his gaze rested on the silver-snake head on his cane, which he twirled absentmindedly in one hand. ‘A simple enough question, I’d have thought. Is this the life that suits you - sitting behind a desk, filling in paperwork, conducting interviews - ?’

 It was the genuine curiosity in the other man’s voice which stopped Harry from simply leaving. ‘It’s… my job. It’s what I do,’ he answered, unsure of how else to explain it, of what other answer Malfoy was looking for.

 ‘Does it make you happy?’ Malfoy’s eyes met his.

 Harry had no answer for it. No one had ever really asked him that before. He didn’t know if that said more about his friends or him, and he wasn’t sure what he thought about Lucius Malfoy of all people asking that now.

 ‘Why do you care?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘We’re not friends - we’re not anything to each other.’

 Malfoy’s grey eyes glittered. ‘Is that what you think? We were enemies, once, and I recall one time when we were as close as two people can be.’

 Harry froze, a flush of shame and memory flashing through his body. His tone when he spoke vibrated with anger. ‘Don’t you dare bring that up.’

 Malfoy shrugged gracefully. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here? You and I both know conducting this interview is outside the normal outlines of your job - you wouldn’t have been sent here unless you asked for it.’

 Harry swallowed. It was true, what Malfoy said. He had asked to be here, to be given this interview. He hadn’t quite had to argue for it or pull any strings, but he’d had to convince Matthias, his superior, quite strongly that he was able to do the job, and that he wasn’t doing it out of any desire to cause trouble with Malfoy. He’d managed it in the end, explaining it simply as him wanting the case to be handled well, and that he was worried that others, not himself, would try to cause trouble.

 It was only an excuse; even Harry couldn’t explain his desire to be here, to see Lucius Malfoy again. The name Malfoy was associated with some of the most painful and darkest periods of Harry’s life, and surely he’d expect to want to stay away from the man? Only he hadn’t. And he didn’t know why.

 ‘So what if I did?’ he countered. ‘I came, did what I needed to do, and now I’m leaving.’

 ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ Malfoy carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s not satisfying: life is too tame for you - sitting in your office day after day, watching your time fly by, watching your little friends move on around you, growing up, living the lives they’d dreamed of. There’s no danger or excitement, any more, the kind you were used to, the kind you _thrived_ on.’ He paused, letting that sink in. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To remind you of what it was like.’

 Harry shook inside - from anger, he told himself, not from fear, or anything else. ‘Deaths and curses and fighting for our lives? Is that what you think I want to remember?’ He shook his head adamantly. ‘You’re wrong. There’s nothing about the past I want to live through again.’

 ‘Not even feeling alive?’ Malfoy said softly, his lips twisted into a strange little smile.

 Harry ignored him and, squaring his shoulders, slung his bag onto one of them, and looked in Malfoy’s direction…although for some reason his eyes refused to meet the other’s.

 ‘The Auror department thanks you for your co-operation. If you have any questions, or anything further to add to your statement, you can contact the department. Otherwise, your involvement in the matter is concluded. Good day.’

 He turned sharply and strode towards the door, his heartbeat just a touch wild. Malfoy’s voice halted him again just as his hand closed around the door handle.

 ‘You know it’s true.’

 Harry refused to turn around, although he couldn’t seem to make himself move either.

 ‘You know it’s true,’ Malfoy repeated. ‘And now that you’ve come, now that you’ve seen me again, felt that heady rush again, you won’t be able to stay away.’

 ‘You’re wrong,’ Harry retorted vehemently, denial in every syllable, before he wrenched open the door.

 His footsteps were rapid, first on the carpeted floors, and then the marble. He didn’t wait for a House-Elf to show him the way out, although Razzle was waiting for him at the front door and opened it for him. Within moments he was striding down the gravel drive towards the outer gate. He didn’t turn around, didn’t want to see Malfoy looking out of the window watching him go; the tingle on the back of his neck was enough.

 Malfoy was wrong.

 Harry had had more than his fair share of excitement and danger in his life, more than enough for anyone. Every single year at Hogwarts had been filled with it - fear, and struggles and people lost. It was enough to make anyone go mad from it. But Harry hadn’t. He’d survived, had learned to get through it, to be strong, because no one else could or would do what he had had to do. And now it was over.

 He _was_ happy in his job. He was relieved not to have to be involved in the things which he’d had to do before, and he enjoyed his ordinary job and quiet life, as near to anonymity as someone like Harry Potter could manage.

 What did Malfoy know about him, about his life? He could cling to his past, sitting alone in his large mansion; Harry wanted the future.

 And yet, and yet…

 He of all people should know how the past never lets you go.

  

* * *

 

He’d gone back to work, back to his routine and his quiet life. He’d sent off the Cube to his superior, had been praised for his handling of the interview, and had settled back into his office with his next list of case files that needed going through. He’d thought it would be the end of it.

 And yet, it hadn’t been. He hadn’t been able to let it go. In the middle of the night, such thoughts were harder to drive away, and Malfoy’s words echoed in his head, no matter how much he had tried to push them away and ignore them.

 ‘ _Are you happy_?’ he’d asked Hermione one day while they were sharing lunch.

 ‘ _What a strange question_ ,’ she’d replied. ‘ _Of course I am_ ,’ she’d answered, her tone amused. She looked pretty and gentle, her smile wonderful as she placed a hand over her protruding belly, the gold ring on her finger glinting in the bright lights of the restaurant. ‘ _I have everything I want, now. Why? Aren’t you_?’

 Harry hadn’t replied, only changed the subject.

 ‘ _Don’t you miss how it was when we were at Hogwarts sometimes_?’ he’d asked Ron a week later as they were cleaning up after dinner in the Burrow, the murmurs from the rest of the Weasley family audible in the other room. ‘ _The adventures and the three of us planning and plotting things_.’

 ‘ _Mm, sometimes, I guess_ ,’ Ron had admitted, his tone thoughtful, and Harry had felt a leap of hope – and then Ron had shrugged. ‘ _But we can’t be children forever…besides, it was war then, and it’s long over, now. You have to be glad of that_.’

 ‘ _Yes, of course…_ ’ Harry had answered.

 He wondered if they were all so content with their lives.

 He thought of his own life: stacks of paper on his desk; visits with his friends; meals eaten alone in the gloom of Grimmauld Place; the occasional interview with a paper – after the dragons and Voldemort and Death Eaters, was this really his life?

 The contrast seemed surreal.

 He hadn’t chosen to be the Boy Who Lived, that much was certain. That life had been thrust upon him by a Prophecy. But what of the rest?

 The chase for the Philosopher’s Stone, the ventures into the Forbidden Forest and the Chamber, Sirius Black and the Department of Mysteries? Had he gone because he’d had to, or because he’d chosen to?

 Harry was no longer sure.

 He did know, however, that even if he had been happy before, he no longer was, and in the end, Malfoy had been right about one thing: he hadn’t been able to stay away.

 

* * *

 

The same House-Elf opened the door to him, took his cloak, and led him through the house to the same drawing room as last time. It was unchanged, as was the man who was standing with his back to the door, his hands clasped together behind his back, gazing out of the window, when Harry walked in. The same room, the same man, the same grey eyes and same placid expression as Malfoy turned around: all unchanged.

 For Harry, though, for Harry it wasn’t the same. Here he was after saying he wouldn’t return, his thoughts and emotions in turmoil. Something vital had changed in his life, and things were no longer as they were, and the man patiently looking at him was the cause. Harry had always remembered Draco to be full of emotion, incapable of hiding it. He’d forgotten that this Malfoy was different.

 He didn’t know what to say now that he was here, and uncertainty filled him as he stared at Malfoy, half-hoping the other would say something, just to fill the silence.

 ‘Would you care for a drink?’ Malfoy asked congenially.

 Harry nodded.

 Malfoy gestured with his hand for Harry to take a seat – in the same chair as before - which Harry did so, stumbling a bit as his body relaxed muscles he hadn’t even known he’d tensed.

 He watched as Malfoy wandered across the room to a glossy wooden cabinet and the tray of amber coloured decanters sitting on top. He poured two glasses, and brought one over to Harry, keeping one for himself; he returned to his own seat, crossing one long leg over the other.

 Harry clutched at the glass gratefully, staring at Malfoy. This was so far from what he’d expected, he didn’t know what to think. He’d expected taunting, or something of that kind, not this _silence_ , as if Malfoy were letting him gather himself. It was unnerving.

 For lack of an alternative, he gulped down a sip of the alcohol, so that it burned down his throat. He was sure that Malfoy wouldn’t approve of the way he was drinking it - was sure that it was the kind of expensive drink that needed to be savoured - but Harry didn’t care about that. It settled him, somewhat, and gave him the courage for what came next.

 ‘Say you’re right,’ Harry began, ‘what has it got to do with you?’

 It was an admission yet not an admission, and Malfoy was silent a moment, his eyes contemplative, but hiding any deeper emotion. Perhaps he hadn’t expected Harry’s bluntness, but he must have known the question was coming.

 ‘It is not so much about what it has to do with me, but more of what I can offer you,’ Lucius said at last.

 Harry’s jaw clenched slightly. ‘And what would that be?’ he asked, half-dreading the answer.

 Malfoy gave him a sharp smile, but it wasn’t meant to scare. ‘I can offer you what you’ve been missing,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘I can make you feel alive again.’

 Harry nodded briefly, taking another sip. He knew it wasn’t arrogance that made Malfoy say that; if anyone could give him the excitement and adventure from before, he was sure a former-Death Eater could.

 And if he hadn’t believed Malfoy could give him what he wanted, he wouldn’t have come.

 It was just whether he wanted to accept it, and the consequences of it.

 ‘You knew I’d come,’ he said, a half question, almost.

 ‘Yes,’ Malfoy admitted. ‘When something is realised, it cannot be unrealised. You would have come to it yourself eventually; I simply made it faster.’ His tone neither mocking nor sympathetic, simply stating a fact.

 Harry stared up at him, miserable, angry, frustrated, sure that his emotions were visible in every part of his face, shining through his eyes, leaking into his voice. ‘Why, though?’

 The first hint of emotion appeared on Malfoy’s face, an intensity in his grey eyes. ‘You were meant for far more than this, Harry Potter.’

 Harry’s mouth twisted downwards at that sentiment, not sure he liked hearing it from Malfoy.

 ‘I _was_ happy,’ he muttered, half to himself, half to Malfoy, a last denial.

 Malfoy let out a short bark of laughter, but it wasn’t mocking, not in the way Harry would have thought; just a sound of humour. ‘You only thought you were.’

 Harry looked down at the glass in his hand then, the truth of what Malfoy had just said ringing in his head. He didn’t know whether or not all of what the man was saying was true, but he couldn’t deny anymore that part of it was. He was here for a reason; he was here for something. Whether it was excitement or danger, he really didn’t know, but he hadn’t been able to resist coming those three weeks ago, and he hadn’t been able to resist coming now.

 He took another sip and shivered, wrapping his arms around himself.

 ‘And what do you want in return?’ he asked.

 Malfoy’s lips curled upwards and his eyes shone silver. ‘You,’ he said simply, a threat and invitation all in one.

 The word was like a shock to his system, for all that he’d known it was coming. He closed his eyes briefly, as emotions surged within him – uncertainty, most of all, but underneath it, a rage that he’d only half buried.

 ‘You’ve had me before,’ he countered. ‘What makes you think I’ll let you have me again?’

 ‘You enjoyed it.’ Malfoy shrugged.

 Harry’s face clouded with anger. 

 ‘You took advantage of me before,’ he said fiercely, warningly. ‘I was a child, and you took advantage of that.’

 Malfoy’s eyes showed faint amusement, but something else too: if Harry had to name it, he’d have called it respect, but surely Malfoy wouldn’t be feeling that for him?

 ‘Yes, I did,’ Malfoy admitted softly. ‘You’re not a child now, though.’

 No, he wasn’t, Harry thought.

 What he’d said was true: Malfoy had taken advantage of him before. Even if he hadn’t been as much a child at seventeen as most would have thought, he’d still been an innocent to sex, and Malfoy had known, had played with it, had manipulated him and toyed with his emotions. Malfoy had been gentle on him, Harry had come to understand afterwards, hadn’t hurt him or used him in the ways he could have, as someone else might have done in the same position, and in his deepest heart, Harry was grateful for that. He had some experience now, had lost some of his innocence, but here he still was, faced with Malfoy, being manipulated by him, playing into his hands once again.

 He’d known it would happen. The moment he’d decided to enter Lucius Malfoy’s life again, he’d known the possibility of them repeating their encounter from before was high. They had a connection, a history, complex strands of past and present and future entwined together. He’d denied it, even as he’d been drawn by it. Malfoy had promised him danger and excitement; Harry hadn’t even known he’d been missing it.

 It wouldn’t be the same this time, though, he thought; he wasn’t a child anymore.

 Malfoy read the answer in his eyes at once, a single flare of triumph colouring his face, curling his mouth, and Harry shivered.

 ‘So what now?’ Such a strange question to be asking Lucius Malfoy, he thought, but everything had been upturned now, and Malfoy was there, part of it. He had done this to him that day during the school inspections; he’d done it three weeks ago, and he’d done it again today.

 Malfoy smiled at him, a predatory smile, but Harry wasn’t afraid, not now, even though he probably should be. He didn’t know what Malfoy intended, but that was probably the point.

 This is what he’d come for; this is what he was asking for.

 ‘Come with me,’ Malfoy ordered, rising to his feet and taking the now-empty glass from Harry’s hand and placing it on the table beside him, along with his own. He waited just long enough to see that Harry was following him, then turned and strode from the room. 

 Harry tried not to think too deeply on what was about to happen as he followed Malfoy through his house, simply breathed deeply and tried to calm his nerves. He was only partially successful.

 On the first floor, Lucius opened a large door to the left, and led Harry through.

 ‘Oh,’ Harry gasped in surprise, taken aback. With Malfoy’s last actions, he’d expected him to want his payment as soon as possible – a Slytherin prejudice he supposed. He hadn’t expected the duelling chamber he’d just stepped into, all glass windows and mirrors and long platform of dark wood illuminated by the sconces that flared into life as they entered.

 Malfoy smirked slightly, guessing his thoughts. ‘Problem?’ he queried, even as he removed his tailored black evening jacket, revealing a dark purple shirt underneath, the sleeves of which he rolled up his arms; on his left, the faded Dark Mark was revealed, and Harry stared at it for several seconds before he forced his eyes away.

 Part of him worried over what he was letting himself in for; the other wanted it.

 ‘No,’ Harry replied, and took several steps closer to the platform. ‘Are we going to duel?’

 ‘Of a fashion,’ Malfoy replied mysteriously, finishing his preparations by tying back his long hair. He walked over to one end of the platform and climbed the steps, taking his place and withdrawing his wand. ‘Shall we?’

 Harry scrambled up the other end, and pulled out his wand. It had been a while since he’d last duelled, and he could feel the adrenalin already flood his system in anticipation.

 ‘Aren’t you going to tell me the rules?’ he asked.

 Malfoy just smirked.

 Without warning, his wand came slashing down, a wordless curse flying towards Harry in a bright blue jet of light. Harry yelped and twisted aside, rolling out of the way. He glanced up at Malfoy, saw those grey eyes narrowed in deadly concentration, and his breath caught in his throat, terror and excitement mingled together.

 This was what Malfoy had offered; this is what he’d asked for.

 Harry firmed his grip on his wand, and went on the offensive.

 Their duel took them all across the hall; spells flew between them faster than the eyes could follow, flashes of colour and light and booming sounds as they ricocheted off walls and shield charms. Malfoy’s spells mostly bordered on questionable, but never tipped over into illegal, which was just as well, as Harry didn’t want to have to arrest him over it.

 They didn’t speak, except to shout out spells, and even then, that was mostly Harry, who hadn’t mastered wordless spells as well as Malfoy clearly had. Malfoy’s eyes glittered and his face was coldly calculating; Harry was simply concentrating too much to banter.

 The first rush of battle had overwhelmed him, that sudden life or death feeling that invaded his senses and narrowed his focus down and made him the formidable fighter which had defeated Voldemort. For all his years of sitting behind a desk, you never forgot some things, and he’d fallen back into the feel of fighting quicker than he’d thought possible.

 By the time they’d been at it almost half an hour, he was beginning to enjoy himself; there was a grin on his face, and he felt exhilarated.

 This was exactly what he’d wanted, what he’d needed.

 This was what Malfoy had promised.

 Harry didn’t know how he could have pushed this need aside for so long and neglected it – and it had taken Lucius Malfoy to bring it out once more.

 Still, it had to end; for all his natural abilities, Malfoy was older and more practised. When Harry was finally disarmed, he found he couldn’t care too much, simply leaned against the nearest wall, and rested his head back against it. He was panting for breath, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

 A somewhat dishevelled Malfoy wandered over to stand before him; he had won, but Harry had made him work for it. Loose strands of hair were falling around his face, and there was colour in his cheeks, sweat trickling down his neck, and his eyes were gleaming.

 ‘Magnificent,’ he whispered, and the flush that spread over Harry’s cheek wasn’t only exertion. 

 Malfoy held out Harry’s wand to him, handle first.

 Harry stared at him uncertainly, glanced at the wand proffered to him. ‘I’m your enemy.’

 ‘Not any more,’ Malfoy replied. ‘The Dark Lord is dead. There are no sides here. We have an agreement now, you and I, and that binds us more than the past.’

 And Harry found he believed him. He reached out for his wand, intending to tug it away; Malfoy held on for a moment.

 ‘This is who you are, Harry Potter,’ he told him seriously. ‘This is who you’re meant to be. Don’t forget it.’

 Then he let go, and Harry slipped the wand away in his back pocket – Moody would shudder at the sight – and his eyes never left Malfoy.

 Dark thoughts were whispering through his mind again and he felt a slow curl of heat begin in his belly. He was flushed from the fight, but he couldn’t blame just that.

 Despite the circumstances in which they’d happened, Malfoy had been his first lover, and it was difficult to forget that, here when they were so close, when his emotions were running high, when Malfoy was enticing him into his web once more.

 The mood between them changed, Malfoy seeming to realise the shift in Harry’s thoughts. He slipped his own wand away and seemed to move closer, even though Harry swore he didn’t take a step.

 One hand reached out and traced Harry’s cheek. The touch was both unexpected and not, the longer fingers against his skin a physical jolt to his whole body, causing a frenzied rush of sensation and thought. It was the first time he’d been touched by this man since that day, and the memories were brought forward from where he’d thought he’d buried them. He’d pushed it down, had hidden it away and avoided all thought of it.

 He’d done it with so many other things too: Sirius’ death, killing Voldemort, his feelings after the war. He’d closed everything off inside of him, gone about life unaware of all the things raging inside of him. It had worked - it had worked, until he’d come to Malfoy for an interview, and Malfoy had opened the floodgates of it all, and brought it all back to him.

 He sucked in a shuddering breath, looking up at Malfoy. For all he was nearly a decade older, the man still seemed to tower over him.

 The touch on his cheek tightened.

 ‘You’re not a child now,’ Malfoy repeated, an affirmation dragging him back to the present.

 Harry nodded.

 Malfoy’s touch gentled once more, and his eyes roved over Harry’s face, and he whispered: ‘So exquisite.’

 ‘No, I’m not,’ he disagreed on instinct.

 ‘Then you do not know your own worth,’ Malfoy retorted. ‘I suppose it is just as well that I do.’

 Harry felt a lump rise in his throat, and his eyes fell shut in denial. Malfoy had seduced him before with his words, albeit not pretty ones, but there was something in his voice which made Harry believe he was telling the truth.

 He didn’t know why, but Malfoy wanted him, and Harry would take it, even if this was all he’d get – a night of fighting and fucking, to make him feel alive.

 ‘Are you going to make me ask for it?’ His voice was mostly steady, but his nerves were audible.

 Malfoy let out a huff of breath, as if the question had surprised him, and Harry could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. ‘No, not this time. Now look at me.’

 Harry did, opening his eyes to find Mafloy’s grey gaze on him, his eyes still amused, although now there was a slightly calculating air to him, as if he were wondering just what to do to Harry now that he had him.

 The first thing he did was remove Harry’s glasses, and Harry sucked in a little breath as his vision adjusted, as he once again grew used to the blurriness that was his world without his glasses. His vision wasn’t so horrendous that he was incapable of seeing anything, and after twenty-odd years, he was capable enough of getting around without them. All the same, it was just as well he wasn’t planning on going anywhere. Malfoy was a black figure in front of him, just close enough for Harry to make out the white of his face, and the long blonde fall of his hair, but not enough that Harry could see his eyes anymore. He followed Malfoy’s movement as the man placed his glasses on the windowsill to his side, waiting to see what he would do next.

 Malfoy touched his face, just as he had earlier, and this time Harry leaned into the touch. Malfoy had always had strong hands, but surprisingly gentle, the skin softer than Harry’s own, which were rough from years of Quidditch. He remembered those hands touching him before, how he’d struggled between wanting them to stop and carry on. He had no such conflicted thoughts now.

 ‘Touch me more?’ He whispered, and his eyes darted upwards, checking to see whether he was allowed to ask such a thing. He knew Malfoy was in charge this time, just as he had been last time.

 Malfoy tilted his head slightly, amused. ‘As you wish.’

 His hands moved, stroking over Harry’s face and down his neck, long fingers sliding along his skin and trailing towards the front clasp of his robes. It slipped free easily, and Malfoy tugged the robes down Harry’s arms with ease, Harry not needing any prompting to help, letting it fall to the floor at his feet. The room was warm enough that Harry didn’t feel chilled, even when Malfoy removed his shirt, which joined his robes on the floor.

 He did touch Harry then, laying both palms flat on Harry’s chest, igniting warmth under the skin where they touched, causing Harry to gasp, his hands involuntarily reaching up to grip Malfoy’s wrists, as if afraid he would let go. Malfoy didn’t object to the weak hold, simply touched Harry the way he wished, gentle sweeps of his hands over his skin, down to his stomach, making it twitch, over his nipples, which hardened to the touch, upwards again to circle the back of his neck.

 A sudden jerk of Malfoy’s hand brought Harry forward, his hands finding purchase in Malfoy’s shirt to help keep his balance, even as Malfoy’s lips came down on his, warm and smooth. He opened his own mouth at once, moaning at the taste that flooded his mouth when he did so: the alcohol they’d both been drinking mingled with Malfoy’s own taste, a slight tartness which Harry remembered from before. It hadn’t changed either.

 Arousal speared his body, hard and fast, and he let out another moan, pressing himself against Malfoy, wanting to feel him against his body. He wound his arms around the older man’s neck, not caring if he was ruining some plan that Malfoy had. He wanted to feel, and he wanted to touch, so he did. Malfoy let out a small grunt of surprise, but didn’t seem put out by this new development, and willingly put his other arm around Harry’s waist to draw him closer against him, even as the hand on Harry’s neck threaded upwards through his hair, gripping the messy black strands which Harry had never managed to tame.

 A tug on his hair had Harry pulling back, although somewhat under protest, his eyes opening to meet Malfoy’s grey ones, and he was pleased to see they were shining with want. Malfoy had already shown he had exceptional control over his emotions, but that he wasn’t hiding that he wanted Harry was gratifying to see.

 Soft lips traced his cheek, his forehead, the touch on his skin a momentary brand, and then Malfoy stepped away leaving Harry cold and suddenly bereft.

 ‘Let’s take this upstairs.’ Malfoy murmured, and Harry knew it wasn’t a question. He’d agreed, and he wanted it.

 He gave a quick nod. Malfoy’s hand snapped out and grabbed his wrist before all contact was lost, and with a sharp smile, he turned and began to lead Harry from the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry didn’t remember the route to Malfoy’s bedroom, was hardly aware of where they were going or what they were passing, and would have been even without his lack of clear vision. Malfoy’s hand was strong and warm around his wrist, and the glances the man threw over his shoulder as he led Harry through the house heated his blood.

 The bedroom when they reached it was already lit by a huge roaring fire, the House-Elves clearly having anticipated their Master’s needs. The curtains were drawn over the balcony doors, but the fire and lamps scattered around the room gave a welcoming glow. Unsurprisingly the main colour within the room was green, but a lighter shade than Harry had expected, a wintergreen colour as opposed to the deep Slytherin green. With it was mixed dark grey and cream. Various doors led off from the room, and Harry wondered if he’d have a chance to explore them later. The sparse furniture in the room and the size of the house was a strong guarantee that Malfoy had other rooms leading off from this one, to bathrooms and a study, and a closet too, if the lack of wardrobes was any indication. Aside from the couch and two chairs on one side of the room, the only real furniture in the room was the bed.

 It was to this that Malfoy led him, guiding him onto the bed so that his knees hung from the end, his weight leaning on his elbows. Harry only had a moment to admire the way the silky-soft sheets felt against his skin before Malfoy was on him, reaching for the fastenings of his jeans. If he disapproved of Harry’s preference for Muggle trousers over the kinds other wizards favoured, he didn’t show it, nor did he have any problems getting them open.

 The slide of his fingers over Harry’s aroused cock through the cotton of his boxers was a tease, a promise of things to come, and Harry couldn’t help the groan that spilled from his lips, of delight and of protest when Malfoy suddenly moved away.

 But then Malfoy was crouching at his feet to remove Harry’s boots and socks, while above him, Harry was almost baffled by the sight of it, enough that he almost missed the moment when he went from being half-dressed to naked.

 ‘Wait,’ he blurted out, and Malfoy paused, a faint question in his eyes.

 ‘I…’ Harry began, unsure of what he’d wanted to say. _I’m scared of what you’ll do to me; I’m scared of what you’re making me feel; I don’t want to be hurt again, left broken and lost._

 Malfoy showed no annoyance at his sudden hesitation; he leaned forward on the bed, his knee on the edge, his arms forming a cage around Harry, bringing his face just inches away.

 ‘Do you trust me, Harry?’

 Harry felt his mouth go dry; it was the first time he’d heard his name on Malfoy’s lips, just his first name like this, all husky and commanding.

 ‘I don’t know,’ he croaked out – the truth.

 Malfoy smirked. ‘If you don’t trust me, then trust that I’ll take care of you, at least. Can you do that?’

 Harry hesitated for long moments. Did he trust him for that?

  _Yes,_ he thought.

 He knew what he was offering himself for – to be used and abused, to be stripped bare and brought low; but Malfoy would see him put together again, he knew. Nothing he could not take.

 He nodded. ‘But take your clothes off too,’ he added firmly. Being exposed with Malfoy looming over him still dressed held too many connotations for him, and he was determined this time would be different.

 Malfoy raised himself up until he was kneeling astride Harry, his hands moving to his silk shirt, releasing the pearl-coloured buttons one by one, exposing the smooth pale skin of his chest.

 Harry watched, entranced. His experience with women had always been rather dismal, and he wasn’t really interested in men; only Lucius Malfoy had proved to be the exception, no matter how much he denied it to himself. Whether it was because of that fateful day or some other reason, he didn’t know, but it was something he had simply come to accept.

 Malfoy seemed unconcerned by the admiration in Harry’s eyes; he’d always been a beautiful man – desire was not uncommon for him.

 He shrugged out of his shirt in an elegant motion, leaving it to fall carelessly on the floor behind him; his attention turned to the rest of his attire, and he moved away from Harry in order to remove his shoes and remaining garments.

 Harry swallowed thickly when the rest of Malfoy’s body came into view. Strong yet slim, he was the same pale white everywhere, except for the dusky pink of his cock, which protruded from his body in an evident display of arousal.

 Harry couldn’t help the slight tremor that went through him as Malfoy returned to the bed, but it became a shudder of pleasure as his long limbs rested against Harry’s as he settled down on top of him, a smooth slide of limbs and weight pressing him down. Then he didn’t have time to think any more, as hands tugged at his face, pulling him into another heated kiss, as if Malfoy was intentionally giving him something else to think about. This was something he could focus on, and he gave into it willingly, wrapping himself around the other man as best he could – the feeling of tongues and teeth and lips coming together and apart.

 Malfoy’s hands left his face, one reaching for his cock, long fingers wrapping around him and squeezing just so to make him gasp into the blond man’s mouth and buck into his hold.

 ‘Yes..’ he whispered, and Malfoy’s hand tightened, almost unbearably, but not just yet.

 It almost distracted him from Malfoy’s other hand. Where Malfoy had found the lubricant he didn’t know – a spell, like last time? – but slick fingers were probing his anus before he could even prepare himself for it; Malfoy was certainly not wasting any time. Harry had to consciously relax to stop himself flinching away.

 Malfoy’s low hum of approval made it clear he’d noticed.

 It wasn’t that he didn’t want it, Harry had the capacity to think in the hazy moments of pleasure as Malfoy alternated his attention between his cock and slicking open his hole with deft fingers; he wanted it, clearly, the anxiety and fear and discomfort notwithstanding. Malfoy seemed to know his body instinctively, the ways to make him squirm and writhe against him, and draw out as much pleasure as possible.

 Harry could only accept what was being done to him.

 ‘Now,’ Malfoy told him, and it was all Harry could do to relax his body before Malfoy was manoeuvring him into place, legs spread and pushed up, his arse lined up for Malfoy’s cock. It pushed inside him, and he felt every ripple of his muscles adjusting around it.

 Malfoy let out a hiss of breath from between his teeth, and held still for barely a moment, joined to Harry, and then he was moving, a few slow strokes at first, gradually getting faster.

 Harry let out a broken-sounding moan, swept away by the heat and force of it – and it was forceful. There was nothing refined and prim about Malfoy, just a relentless rocking into Harry that pushed him against the covers and pillows behind him. His hands scrabbled over Malfoy’s back, leaving tiny red lines where his nails dug into pale skin. Malfoy pushed into his touch, allowing it, Harry realised, but then his hands found Harry’s and Harry found his wrists pinned down on either side of his head, Malfoy’s arms stretched out beside his head, muscles straining visibly.

 A surge of adrenalin swept through him, the feeling of helplessness, and it just added to everything else he was feeling. Malfoy’s mouth found his again, and Harry kissed him back with everything he could.

 Malfoy broke away and Harry sucked in huge gulps of air. ‘Please,’ he whispered brokenly. ‘Please…’

 Malfoy’s right hand left his arm, and Harry immediately wrapped his hand around his cock, squeezing and tugging in the way he liked best. He was so close, and Malfoy was driving into him so hard, white sparkles flashing behind his eyes with every thrust; he could hear his breathy little grunts in his ear, and it was too much, and yet at the same time it felt like it would never be enough.

 His head snapped back against the pillow, his muscles tightened, and he came, crying out at the suddenness and force of it. Semen splattered across his stomach and his chest rose and fell sharply, heaving in great gulps of air. He felt as if his head was spinning, but was conscious enough still to hear the sharp inhale that Malfoy made, to know and feel the moment Malfoy lost control of himself, the jerky movements as he came inside Harry in a hot rush, and the shudders that wracked his frame as he pressed his face into Harry’s shoulder, a soft murmur of completion falling from his lips which Harry only barely heard.

 After several moments, Malfoy pulled out with a soft sound – Harry grimaced at the sticky, empty feeling he was left with – and lay down beside Harry, head pillowed on his arm, blond hair spread over the dark-coloured covers. Parts of his body still touched Harry’s, and his fingers trailed gently through Harry’s hair.

 Harry lay with his eyes closed, heart pounding, his body still thrumming from his orgasm. He felt glorious, physically and mentally, and wondered why he felt so surprised by it.

 The fingers in his hair tightened briefly, and he opened his eyes to look at Malfoy, saw that beautiful face turned towards him, those grey eyes relaxed and satiated as they gazed at him – and possessive too, Harry noted with surprise.

 He frowned slightly, realisation coming to him.

 ‘It’s not just me,’ he said wonderingly.

 Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and a mild curiosity grew in them, but it wasn’t enough to mute the pleasure that even Harry couldn’t help but see.

 ‘What was that?’ he asked.

 ‘You said life was too tame for me,’ Harry expanded, rising to a sitting position. His voice was low and steady, feeling through the thoughts, but certain of them. ‘It’s not just me, though: it’s the same for you as well. Voldemort is dead, and people have moved on, but you’ve been left behind as well. Why else would you offer me what you did?’

 Malfoy simply watched him, and Harry gave him a stilted smile.

 ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ he pressed, his heart thumping in his chest.

 Malfoy was silent for a long moment. ‘And what if you are?’ he asked at last.

 Harry felt a flutter in his stomach, and had to breathe deeply. He should have felt self-conscious sitting naked here beside Malfoy, still covered in semen and sweat, but he did not. Malfoy had promised to look after him, and he had, and Harry had to hold on to that.

 ‘I won’t allow it to be just me,’ he said forcefully yet quietly, his eyes intense as they held Malfoy’s gaze. ‘If I need you, then you had damn well better need me too.’

 Malfoy let out a startled chuckle, his expression becoming almost tender.

 ‘You’re magnificent,’ Malfoy whispered, repeating his words from earlier, and his hands reached upwards, tugging Harry against him again, his lips warm and soft and a promise. He broke away, his voice just a murmur: ‘We’re lonely souls, you and I, but together…’ he trailed off, and Harry spoke instead:

 ‘Together, we might just be able to make something more of it all.’

 He could picture it, the two of them here in this lonely house, trading spells, and time, and themselves. For how long, he didn’t know, but he suspected the end was not yet in sight, and he would take and give what he could for as long as it was allowed.

 He smiled, and Lucius returned it, and Harry thought that maybe it would be all right.

 Let his friends have their pretty little homes and pretty little lives; his salvation would be here.

 

* * *

 

 

I believe there’s a time and a place,

To let your mind drift and get out of this place

I believe there’s a day and a place,

That we will go, and I know you want to share.

 

_Unkle - Lonely Souls_

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Fin_

 


End file.
